


Complicated

by octobersymphony



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobersymphony/pseuds/octobersymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis has a thing for divas. Jenson's pillow talk sucks. David gives good advice. Mark drives a hard bargain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complicated

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the mid-season break 2010, after the Hungarian Grand Prix.

You're doing some PR thing with Lewis in London the week after the Hungarian Grand Prix, and the three weeks until the next race seem much too long. You're itching to get back into the car, and Lewis is tense and monosyllabic. He's furiously typing away on his cellphone at every chance he gets between posing for the photographers and signing autographs. He seems oddly anxious, his smiles for the cameras more perfunctory than usually.

When they give you a break, you pull him aside. "Hey, what's going on? Trouble in paradise? The pussycat showing her claws?"

 _Again_ , you don't add. You're not really sure why Lewis puts up with Nicole. Sure, she's hot, but a little too high maintenance for your taste and prone to throwing hissy fits every second. And yeah, maybe she's earned the right to act like a diva because she's more famous than any of you will ever be, but you don't think she's really worth the trouble. But then, you're not the one shagging her, so what do you know.

"What?" Lewis looks momentarily perplexed at your question. When you point at the phone he's gripping so hard that his knuckles turn white, he shakes his head. "Oh, no, that wasn't Nicole."

He doesn't offer any more information, so you shrug and say, "All right then."

Just as you're saying this, his phone beeps again. Lewis looks at the screen, his expression growing frustrated, and he swears under his breath. You should probably leave him alone, but you're curious and also a little worried. You wonder if you should offer to talk about it, but before you can make up your mind how to walk the fine line between being supportive and intrusive, he looks up at you and says, "It's Fernando."

And— okay? You're not really sure what to say to that. In fact, you're not entirely sure what Lewis means, what exactly he's implying when he says that Fernando is texting him and making him walk around with an expression like that. Your confusion must be written all over your face because Lewis adds, "It's complicated."

You want to make a crack about changing his Facebook relationship status (you briefly amuse yourself imagining it popping up on your screen: _Lewis is now in a relationship with Fernando Alonso and it's complicated_ ), but Lewis looks unhappy and upset, so maybe it's not the right kind of thing to make jokes about. 

It figures that Lewis isn't satisfied with having one high-maintenance diva in his life.

"It's always complicated, man," you tell him, because it's what you assume he needs to hear. Even if it's a lie, because it's been years since you've had a relationship you'd classify as 'complicated' in any kind of way. That probably means that one of you is doing things the wrong way, but you can't say for sure if it's you or him. Maybe complicated is nice, once in a while. 

Maybe when something's not easy, it means that it's important.

* * *

Lewis has always liked Fernando more than he should have.

You remember watching them during one of the driver parades back in early 2008. Lewis kept trying to engage Fernando in conversation and Fernando looked positively uncomfortable, as if he couldn't wait for the truck to stop so he could get off it and as far away from Lewis as possible. But maybe it just seemed that way from the distance, because it's not like Fernando is famous for his tact. If he really wanted to walk away from Lewis, he probably would have turned his back without batting an eyelash.

When you passed them on the way out, you heard Lewis tell Fernando, "It's weird in the team without you."

Fernando said, "It was weird with me there, too. You know that."

You didn't hang around to wait for Lewis' answer. 

It wasn't the strangest drivers' parade exchange you overheard, nor the most memorable, but you can't get it out of your head now, with Lewis' "it's complicated" echoing in the back of your mind.

* * *

Your solution to the present situation is to lose the journalists and the handlers and the publicity people, and drag Lewis off to a small pub where you know they serve a decent pint and respect your privacy.

For a while, you stick to safe topics of conversation: how annoying sponsor events are, the improvements you want for the car when the break is over, favourite Caribbean holiday spots, bets on how long the latest truce at Red Bull is going to last.

The alcohol is loosening your tongues, and suddenly Lewis says, "Aren't you going to ask? About Fernando?"

You shrug and carefully say, "Either you tell me because you want to, or you don't." Of course you're bloody curious, but the things you're most curious about are the ones Lewis is not going to shed any light on anyway.

"It's just... he makes me so mad sometimes, you know? It's not like I'm asking him to marry me, but every time I so much as publicly hint at the fact that we're friends, he acts like I'm talking state secrets." 

Beer has made way for vodka shots by now, and Lewis slams his back without hesitation, reaching for a refill. There's a dark look on his face, frustration and something else, and you find it as fascinating as you think it's troublesome. 

When he makes a move to raise the glass to his lips again, your fingers close around his wrist, steadying him. 

"You might wanna go easy on that, mate," you say, your tone deliberately light to make it sound like a suggestion and not an order. Lewis doesn't seem to be in the kind of state where he likes being ordered around. Well, actually, Lewis is never particularly good with orders to begin with, considering his behaviour in the team. You try not to continue that line of thought because you know it would inevitably lead to wondering how Lewis takes orders in the privacy of the bedroom – whether he lets Fernando order him around. Which, yeah, is kind of hot. The mental image goes straight to your groin, even though you try to shake it off. Without much success, admittedly.

"I sorta feel like getting drunk tonight," Lewis says. But he hasn't made a move to shrug off your grip – and isn't that a curious thing?

You tighten your hold experimentally, just a little, appreciating the contrast of your skin tones in the dim lighting. Appreciating even more that Lewis is still not doing anything to free his hand.

"I just want to forget about Fernando and all that mess tonight, you know." It's probably meant to be an explanation for why he's seeking comfort in the booze, but you wonder if that's all there is to it.

"There are better ways of distracting yourself," you suggest lightly. It could mean anything, plausible deniability and all, but your fingers are still curled around Lewis' wrist and your thumb is moving in tiny circles over his skin. Lewis meets your gaze, eyes two deep dark pools of liquid fire. He unconsciously wets his lips, tongue darting out skittishly. 

_Gotcha_ , you think, and your lips stretch into a wide smile.

* * *

"You slept with him."

It's three days later. Lewis is off to God knows where – on vacation with Nicole perhaps, or trying to make things work with Fernando – and you're bored. You long for the times when there was testing during the summer. And really, splitting up with your girlfriend before the mid-season break was a stupid idea.

"I like him," you say, trying to justify yourself even though you're aware that you don't need to. You feel like you do, though.

On the other end of the line, David sighs. "You know that you don't have to sleep with every single person you _like_ , right?"

Maybe you should get offended, but you know that however it sounds, David doesn't mean to imply that you're a slut – and it's not like he's not right. 

Drawing the line between _liking_ someone and _wanting_ them has always been your problem. When you enjoy hanging out with someone, at some point you'll always end up shagging them. It's not a bad thing. You never really get lonely. You rarely fall in love and get your heart broken. You generally manage to stay friends with everyone, even after they've stopped being friends-with-benefits. You don't see why you should change your ways, except that sometimes, you think it would be nice to just enjoy spending time with someone without getting involved with them. 

And sometimes, just sometimes, you think about how it would be to be with someone you didn't just _like_. To have something a little more complicated.

* * *

No matter how well you and your teammate get along, it always sucks when they win a race and you crash out. There's something bitter about being part of a celebration that you know is not for you, and even though you like Lewis just fine, you feel a little resentful towards him as the night progresses.

You decide to retire early from the team party – but not early enough that you miss Lewis hiding in a private corner of the room, speaking on the phone in a visibly agitated manner. Someone who's just won a Grand Prix and moved to the front of the championship leader board should look happier than he does, you can't help thinking. But then, you suspect that Alonso probably feels the same about the race as you do, and no more magnanimous about Lewis' victory. It makes you even more curious how the two of them make it work – if they make it work. It's hard enough to be friends with a rival, you can't imagine being in love with them. 

Well, all right, you can _imagine_ ; you just don't see how it could be worth the trouble.

You move away before he spots you. Tonight, you have no intention of being the one to help him forget Fernando.

Instead, you wind up alone in your hotel room. It's three in the morning and you have a flight to catch at ten. There's not much point going to sleep, and you're barely tired anyway, adrenaline from the race still flying high. You're feeling vaguely horny and oddly empty and unsatisfied, but not sober enough to go down to the hotel bar and pick someone up and not drunk enough to watch the crappy pay-per-view porn the hotel TV offers. 

Grabbing your phone, you scroll through the contacts. You press the call sign next to Mark's name before you can think it through.

It takes him five rings to answer, almost enough for you to give up. His voice sounds rough, and you realise he was probably sleeping. "Hey. Shouldn't you be at the team party?"

"Didn't feel much like partying," you admit. "Shouldn't you be, though, second place and all?"

"Second place isn't really much reason to party. Especially when you lost your championship lead."

You hear him yawning through the phone and wonder if you shouldn't just say goodnight and let him go back to sleep. You're halfway drunk and you're lonely, and maybe this isn't a good idea. You remember what David said about not sleeping with everyone you're friends with, but it's too late for that anyway. You and Mark go way back, and you've been in and out of each other's beds (trailers, hotel rooms, whatever) for as long as you can remember. What's the point of stopping now?

"Wanna come over and commiserate about a shitty race weekend?"

Maybe you'll do just that. Maybe you'll drink and insult your teammates and share your misery. Except that's bollocks and you know it. You know this is a booty call and so does Mark, probably knew it from the moment he answered the phone.

On the other end of the line, Mark laughs softly. "Fine. All right. Give me five minutes and I'll be over."

* * *

Later, you lie next to Mark, staring at the ceiling where the lights from outside throw strange shadows and orange patterns.

"I think Lewis is in love with Fernando," you say, apropos of nothing.

Mark laughs, deep and rumbling, as if you'd made some joke. You look at him questioningly. 

"You noticed that _now_?"

You shrug. You don't feel like sharing the whole story, not that there's much to it. "Lewis told me. I didn't really pay attention before, I guess. It's a little weird, though, after everything that happened when they were teammates."

"If you ask me, it's _because of_ what happened when they were teammates rather than despite it. I could be wrong, though. Can't say I gave it much thought."

It's entirely possible that this is Mark's way of telling you it's none of your business, but fuck, you're curious. "What about Fernando?"

"What about him?"

You roll your eyes and elbow Mark in the side. "You know what I mean."

There's a pause that stretches too long. You're just about to either give up or elbow Mark again – you haven't decided yet which one it'll be – when Mark sighs and says, "I think he's probably a little in love with Hamilton, too, he just doesn't like him very much. Why are we talking about Fernando and Hamilton?"

"Are you saying my pillow talk sucks?" you quip, and he laughs.

"Pretty much, yeah." He rolls on top of you, balancing his weight on his forearms on either side of your body so he won't crush you. You're not even touching, but his skin is just a fraction of an inch above yours and you can feel the heat radiating from his body. You arch your body up, but he moves out of reach. "So?"

You don't really feel like explaining yourself, but you know Mark well enough to know that he won't let up until he's got his answer, and giving in right away sounds easier than giving in out of sheer frustration in ten minutes. "I'm just curious. Things seem fairly... I don't know, complicated I guess, between them, and I wonder what that's like. If it's worth the trouble. If I'm maybe missing something by always going for the easy thing."

And, well, fuck. You didn't mean to say that. You're pretty sure that this is not something you say to someone you just had sex with and intend to have sex with again in a few minutes.

If anything, Mark seems amused. He leans down and brushes a teasing kiss against your mouth, moving away before you can deepen it. "So, what are you saying? That you want us to be more _complicated_?"

That's not what you meant. You didn't mean you wanted a complicated sort of relationship _with Mark_. But his hand is trailing down your side, from your shoulder downwards, with intent, and his gaze is dark and heated, making your stomach clench with desire. And you can't help wondering what it would be like with Mark, if it wasn't casual, if it was messy and complicated and you put your heart into it. It's a frightening thought, but equally exhilarating. 

"Maybe," you say, wrapping your legs around his waist. The move brings your bodies even closer together, and the sensation of your groin rubbing against his makes you inhale sharply. You once again try to reach for his lips, but he moves away before you can kiss him, almost making you growl in frustration.

"You gotta stop shagging your teammates then. And also everyone else you _like_ ," he says, holding your gaze. He's still teasing, but his voice has a more serious edge now. His choice of words makes you wonder if he and David secretly talk about you, but frankly, you don't give a fuck.

"Fine," you say sharply, making him raise an eyebrow. "Under two conditions."

He doesn't say anything, and the hand that's been moving restlessly across your skin stills. You instantly miss his touch.

"One, the same goes for you. No one else."

"Done," he says, so quickly and without any hesitation that it makes you wonder how long he's been thinking about this. "What's the other condition?"

You allow a slow smile to stretch your lips, overriding the nervousness and the flutter in your stomach. "You finally stop negotiating and fuck me, before I die from blue balls."

Mark laughs and finally, finally bends down to kiss you properly.

End.


End file.
